


Hurricane

by staringatstars



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Torture, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Suicide Attempt, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 20:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17669942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: When a spell gone wrong leaves Loki trapped in the body of his younger self during the Battle of New York, he's determined to use this chance to make sure Thanos never gets his hands on the Tesseract.





	Hurricane

Locked in the middle of a battle for New York, the Avengers were a little too preoccupied with shooting down aliens on gliders and terrific space whales to be overly concerned with Thor’s scuffle with his brother. Even so, the scream that emanated from the tower, that lanced indiscriminately through the minds of civilians, so loud in Clint’s head he doubled over at the waist, his eyes screwed shut, mouth twisted into a grimace, could only belong to the younger Asgardian prince.

It wasn’t a scream of rage, or even one of fear.

Loki screamed like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and crushed before his eyes, as though his spine had been shattered, his body torn apart by fragments of bone flowing through his veins. With his fingers still welded to the hilt of the blade he’d plunged into Thor’s side, he sank to his knees, seemingly trapped in a nightmare. 

“What trickery is this?” Loki rasped, his head hanging low, chin touching his chest. “Who dares use my brother’s form... to torment me like this?” 

Thor flinched, still unused to hearing such concentrated venom from he who was lauded as blessed with a silver tongue, but stood his ground. “You are sick, brother.” Gently, Thor uncurled Loki’s rigor mortis grip from the hilt, holding the cool and bone-white hand between his own to coax some warmth and color back into his brother’s body. “Let me take you back to Asgard. Our healers can-”

Loki’s head jerked upwards. “They cannot _fix_ me! Nothing can fix me!” In a blind panic, he ripped his hand away, lurching towards the balcony’s edge with one arm raised high, palm facing outwards in a toothless bid to keep Thor at bay. “And you’re not real.” 

Torn between staying to help his brother and destroying the sceptre once and for all - the latter of which could very well accomplish the first - Thor hesitated. He could hear Clint Barton demanding to know what the hold-up was, the Widow’s assurances that this was all a ploy for time, but… Thor had known Loki for millennia. They’d grown up together, played together. 

And Loki, for all his wiles and canny, had never been able to hide from Thor when he was afraid. It was in part of why Thor had never believed that conquering Midgard had been his design. 

Who struck fear in the heart of a king? 

But now, it was almost like Loki had forgotten what his purpose was. The explosions, the roar of the engines from the Chitauri crafts escaping through the portal, the screams from below - none of it reached him now. When Thor had forced him to listen to and see the destruction he’d caused, there’d been a moment where he’d seen the true Loki looking back at him through madness-bright blue eyes. 

Of course, Loki had always had green eyes, shifting and reflective as snake scales in sunlight. 

And now, as Thor watched him map out the shape of the ornate golden horns protruding from his helm, he saw that while one eye had remained the color of the sea and sky, the other had returned to its natural shade. Though there was no way to know the significance of this most recent change, Thor found to his surprise that there was a well of hope left in him, a well that very well should have run draw after his brother took advantage of his heartfelt pleas to poke another hole in his torso. 

Just when he was beginning to fear that Loki’s wits had abandoned him, however, a sneer twisted his features, and in a motion so swift his arm became a blur, he plucked the helm from his head, chucking it over his shoulder like a piece of trash. It pegged a passing Chitauri, knocking the invader off the craft and sending them plummeting to what was likely an abrupt end. 

“Okay, I hate the guy,” Clint’s voice announced over the comm from his perch, “but even I have to admit that was a nice shot.” Another Chitauri soldier soon fell, this one spitting static with an arrow lodged in their ear. Loki followed its descent with an odd expression, something torn between satisfaction, spite, and longing. 

Thor took a tentative step towards him, the words, “Step away from the ledge,” crashing against closed lips. He soon regretted this action. In an instant, Loki’s arm shot out with the speed of a viper’s strike. A renewed pain burned in Thor’s side when he tore the blade from his flesh. There wasn’t even enough time to feel threatened or betrayed by the action before the dagger’s sharpened edge was being directed towards the bare flesh of Loki’s extended throat. 

Reacting on instinct, Thor’s arm swept out to knock the blade from Loki’s hands. It skidded off the edge, joining in the fate of the dying Chitauri. And Thor gripped Loki’s shoulder, unable to let go, or even note the way he winced at his touch. He was too afraid that if he let go, his brother would follow his weapon, his allies, and fall.

 

_What are you doing?!_

Loki shrugged, too busy testing the limits of his restraints to acknowledge the ceaseless complaints of his younger self. Honestly, it would be better for both of them if his past consciousness allowed the spell to merge their personalities the way it was meant to.

_No! I did not endure His torments to suffer erasure now. This body belongs to me and I will not have you take from me what is mine._

Ridiculous. This body was never theirs.

Since the time of their first breath and before, its purpose had always been to be used and abused by others. Theirs was the fate of a broken tool. 

Nothing more.

The other him scoffed at his so-called defeatist attitude, calling him weak, a fool ruined by sentiment. And Loki, who was once again watching a group of heroes whispering about him in a huddle while sitting tied up on the floor, couldn’t help huffing in hollow amusement at what his past self believed constituted an insult. 

Sentimental fool. How many times had they thrown those exact words in Thor’s face? 

At this point, Thor, Agent Romanoff, and Stark finished their impromptu meeting, turning their attentions back to him. He stared listlessly back, knowing they expected him to snarl and hiss and spit venom. That was what cornered animals did, after all. 

Stark and Agent Romanoff believed his surrender to Thor had been a ploy, a scheme, because it was always a scheme, and Loki had to admit he was impressed. It seemed the humans had a better grasp of his character after a collective hour of interaction than his own brother did after centuries. 

Despite their warnings, Thor looked down at him without suspicion, just that by now familiar blend of heartache and disappointment those who made the mistake of loving a weapon always wore. Then he kneeled, placing a hand on Loki’s shoulder, “Do you recognize me, brother?”

Loki stared at the point of contact, struggling to make sense of how it was possible, ignoring his other self’s scream of outrage when he allowed it to continue. “My mind tells me you are real,” he whispered, “but it cannot be trusted.” 

Once more, desperate hope spread over Thor’s features. “What does your heart say?”

“My heart… even less so.” His words visibly pained Thor to hear, and Loki averted his gaze, unable to stand it anymore. All he could do, all he was capable of, was hurting those who cared for him, poison that he was. 

“Jesus,” Stark breathed, his arms folded over his chest, “what did they do to him?” He’d changed out of his mechanized armor, most likely due to it having been destroyed past the point of functionality, though holding a nuclear weapon would do that. The fact that he would abandon armor completely in Loki’s presence, however, when not so long ago they’d been on opposite sides of a space invasion, was either a testament to his confidence in his teammate’s abilities or to his belief that defeat had successfully defanged the God of Mischief. 

Even in his current state, Loki couldn’t bring himself to appreciate Stark’s pity. 

_We should throw him out the window again. See if the impertinent mortal can fly half as well without his precious metal suit._

Thor stood to address his Midgardian companions. “He stabbed me. Then withdrew the blade and attempted to do the same to himself.”

Stark shook his head. “That sounds terribly unsanitary.” 

“A wound such as this is nothing to my people.” Thor gestured to the puncture wound in his side. Though a hole remained in his vest, the skin beneath it was unblemished, pink and new. “Children inflict greater injuries in jest.” 

The ghost of a smile passed over Loki’s lips. “Once when we were young,” - _Why are you wasting time with these imbeciles? We failed to retrieve the Tesseract! Do you not realize what that means?!_ \- “I took advantage of Thor’s fondness of garden snakes to play a rather harmless prank.” 

And as he’d known he would, Thor remembered. “I lifted you into my arms,” he started fondly, followed by a look of confusion when he continued, “...and you stabbed me.”

“Not much has changed.”

“Everything has, brother. You attempted to,” again, Thor struggled to find the right words, though experience should have taught him that the effort was wasted on him, “inflict great damage upon yourself. Right in front of my eyes. Do you care nothing for your life?” 

Loki was half-tempted to caution him against asking questions he didn’t truly want the answers to. Instead, he donned a mask of smugness, something they were both more comfortable with. “I’m rather of two minds about it.” It didn’t appear to have the intended effect, however, only serving to exasperate Thor’s frustration. Loki decided to try again. “You’d be better off without quite so much mischief in your life, Thor,” he told him honestly, his smile sad and knowing. 

It was in that moment that his past self attempted to seize control of their shared body, sending lighting bolts of agony lancing through Loki’s mind. But where the younger him had desperation, panic, and fear driving him to act, Loki had determination and experience. 

Without the Tesseract’s aid, his younger self was little more intimidating than a frightened child. If surviving meant relinquishing control, then it was better this battle of wills destroy them both. And that was another point in which Loki held the advantage.

Naive and untested as he was, his former self believed they had a right to live, unaware that their birthright was to die.

Behind Thor, a golden shimmer appeared, formless at first, then coalescing into an incorporeal duplicate of Loki in his Asgardian regalia, complete with the helmet bequeathed to him by Thanos. Its horns struck outward aggressively, reaching their peak and curling backwards in a demonic fashion. It matched well with the feral snarl corrupting his visage, the manic glint in his too bright eyes when the illusion lunged at Thor.

Romanoff noticed the danger first, “Thor, watch your back!” 

Mentally, Loki commanded the illusory doppelgänger to dispel, but nothing changed. Though he did not think the illusion could truly harm Thor, there was something foreboding about the manic grin it wore when it looked at him. 

Quite frankly, this was embarrassing. To cast spells verbally was the mark of a novice, and to lose control of his magic at that. The problem was, of course, that magic jumped to the call of the strongest will, and while Loki believed he had equal if not greater claim to his younger self’s body, it would seem that the body itself didn’t agree. Despite the disadvantage this put him at, Loki drew on his remaining resolve to wrestle the uncooperative aether into submission, “Dispel!”

The illusion dissolved mid-strike, its features twisted into a silent howl of rage. 

There were bullets lodged in Stark’s bar counter from the Widow’s attempts to subdue it. She was breathing harshly now, her wavy red hair askew. Idly, Loki wondered if she’d known that shooting the illusion wouldn’t have harmed him, though he doubted she much cared either way. Stark slowly lowered his gauntlet, allowing the blaster to power down now that the danger wasn’t so immediate, and Thor… 

Thor must have thought Loki had meant to betray him again, because his expression revealed nothing, and Loki couldn’t bring himself to look and wonder for long. 

The next thing he knew, Thor was draping him in his cloak. “You look cold, brother.” And though it was difficult to think through his surprise and exhaustion, Loki realized it was true. His body shook uncontrollably. Sweat beaded on his brow, chilling him. 

Would ironies never cease? 

“What was that?” Stark demanded, making his lingering suspicions known. Loki supposed that Romanoff would have voiced the same thought, had she not been so preoccupied with planning the various circumstances of his eventual murder. 

“Just a bit of internal conflict,” Loki assured them. “Nothing to concern yourselves over.” 

The atmosphere changed when he spoke. Romanoff narrowed her eyes, edging closer to him with a critical gaze. “You seem different, somehow.” He didn’t dare move, hardly dared to breath. “Are you really Loki?”

Glancing quickly at Thor, a gesture that Romanoff didn’t miss, he answered, “I am _always_ Loki.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Thor let out a tired sigh. “Why must you always speak in riddles, brother?”

Reassured that what he was about to do was the right thing, the only thing, Loki began the somewhat complex work of unraveling the protective spells concealing his presence from anyone with the Sight. 

_HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!_

_Do you honestly think Thanos will be forgiving after our failure? If he finds us, he will torture us until we forget our names. He will unmake us. The suffering he’s already inflicted will pale in comparison to what he has in store._

For a moment, Loki paused. It disturbed him, then, how much his past self’s words echoed those of Ebony Maw. How close had he been to becoming one of the Black Order? What would have become of him if he’d succeeded?

Perhaps it was best not to know.

He started again, pulling and plucking at the woven threads of the casting, stretching the gaps he created. 

While he worked, Stark seized his chance to let his concerns be known. “Look,” he started with his usual tact, “as touching as this family reunion isn’t, I can’t keep a wanted space fugitive tied up in my bar forever, Thor!" He gestured pointedly to the shattered windows. "I don’t know if you know this but that little exterior decorating choice wasn't there yesterday!” When Loki chuckled under his breath, Stark swung on him, “And what are you laughing at, Snape?” 

“Oh no, I quite agree.” The last thread came loose easily, the remnants of the spell collapsing in on themselves. He was finally, completely exposed. “Allow me, if you will, to reduce your doubtlessly long list of troubles by one.” 

And not for the first time, his surroundings smoldered like a note tossed in the fire as mind left body behind, traveling across space and time to face judgement at long last.

 

He supposed he would never know if Heimdall had abandoned him to Thanos or was merely too slow to save him. 

It would have been understandable for Heimdall to feed him to the wolves, so to speak, when one considered their last meeting on the BiFrost, though something told him Heimdall would have spared him this if it was within his power. In any case, standing in front of the Other once more on the barren moon, devoid of sunlight and plant life, was exactly where Loki had always intended to be. 

Even a broken tool had its uses. 

The Other crept forth from the crevices in the moon’s surface, stepping out from behind a rock formation with a sinister sneer, “You have failed us, and in doing so, have sealed your fate. What say you to this, Asgardian?” Even with the mask over his face, Loki could feel the heat of rancid breath on his neck. “Or do you think we are but words?”

Inside, he could feel his younger self trembling, shrinking from the Other’s menace, and pitied him. “Do what you will to me. I care not.” Loki stared past the Other, speaking directly to the towering back of one who had forged him into a weapon, pointed him at Midgard with the conviction that a throne was all he’d ever wanted, and then set him loose. “You will never receive my aid in any endeavor of yours for as long as these lungs draw breath.” 

The words tasted sweet, and though it was certain their returns would be bitter, Loki couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so free. Thus, when his past self leapt upon his moment of unguardedness to seize control, Loki allowed himself to be shoved aside, knowing it was too late to change what had been done. 

“Wait! Wait, now just hold on a moment,” he heard himself say, desperate and afraid. “Twas simply a jest, my lord. Surely, you cannot believe that I would ever profane your name in earnest?” 

Seconds passed without response before Thanos finally deemed them worthy of peering over his shoulder. “It would seem,” he intoned with chilling calm, “that some re-education is in order.”

“Come now, that’s really not necessary-” The Other’s bony hand shot out, gripping their jaw with bruising pressure, rendering speech untenable. Throughout this, Loki remained smugly silent, relishing this small moment of victory. 

As promised, the Other tormented them with a brand of pain they’d never before experienced. Flesh was flayed from their limbs, muscles and tendons parted from their bones, the marrow sucked dry, only to be regrown, a process which proved to be almost as agonizing as the punishment. And sometimes, when their throat wasn’t clogged with blood, when their tongue wasn’t sewn to the roof of their mouth with sinew, Loki would laugh at all the effort that was being devoted to destroying what was little more than a vessel, breaking what was already broken. 

This was, after all, his last and greatest defiance - wasting the Mad Titan’s time. 

Asgardians, or Frost Giants that looked like them, were exceedingly hard to kill. There was a natural regeneration factor involved that made them every torture technician’s dream and every assassin’s nightmare. When put under enough strain for a long enough period, however, their hearts could and did give out, and a heart that ceased beating wasn’t quite so easy to heal as a missing limb. 

When it finally happened, Loki couldn’t remember the last time either of the consciousnesses trapped within him had spoken, nor which one he was meant to be. The line between them had blurred some time ago, their shared suffering melding them into a single anguished entity. 

Although he’d rarely had the time or inclination to think about where his soul would depart to after his death, Náströnd, home to murderers, adulterers, and traitors, seemed the most likely destination. Surely, Valhalla was out of the question. And while he wasn’t keen on spending the rest of eternity running from the snapping jaws of Níðhöggr, the thought of seeing Hela again was an intriguing one. Perhaps she might even see it fit to share some of her vast knowledge of Asgard’s sordid history, not that such information would do him any good.

What he didn’t expect was the pain that lanced through his chest, the involuntary seizing of muscles, his dead heart automatically contracting in response to the electricity flowing through his veins. Another bolt hit his chest and he cried out, silently pleading for whatever force it was that anchored him to this world to let him go. 

After the third strike, his heart began contracting on its own, his lungs greedily sucking in air, and though his skin remained ashen, spots of color appeared in his cheeks. Reluctant as he was to see what would doubtless be the Other staring contemptuously down at him, Loki forced his gaze to focus on the visage above him, and gradually, his vision began to clear. 

“Your heart stopped,” Thor informed him thickly. His palms were still pressed against Loki’s chest. Stark and Romanoff were standing nearby, as well. Neither of them appeared to have aged a day since Loki left to speak with the Other, nor changed in appearance, which could only mean that the entire conversation and subsequent punishment had taken place entirely within his fragmented glass-shard mind. 

This was information he had known once. It was difficult to recall the exact moment when what was known became unknown when in the presence of the Mad Titan’s most formidable psychic. 

As someone accustomed to equating physical contact with pain, he half-expected Thor’s winding arms to crush him, to tighten around his throat like a noose, but the pressure he anticipated wasn’t behind the embrace. Instead, Thor hovered anxiously, his chainmailed limbs remaining nothing more than a present yet not uncomfortable weight on Loki’s shoulders. When he didn’t recoil from his touch, didn’t push him or chastise him for the blatant show of sentiment, Thor rested his head heavily against Loki’s leather tunic.

Listening for the steady rhythm of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts. 
> 
> The title, "Hurricane" comes from a song of the same name by Fleurie.


End file.
